


Hope or Something Like It

by pfaugh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Pre-Sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfaugh/pseuds/pfaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't their first, and he wants to think it isn't their last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [centaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaur/gifts).



He stops by once every few years, the thud of his boot lost in the cries of Dallas at night. It's always one night at this one sea-themed bar with blue walls and girls in clamshell bras swathed in blue lighting. He gets a strong whiskey, best in the house, and you're paying the bartenders to call you when he's in. You know there's a sign in the office, a picture of him you found on google taken somewhere in the sahara. They always call you, and you always appear ten minutes later, sliding into the seat beside him and waiting to be noticed.

Tonight you arrived in seven, and the first thing you notice is his age. If you recall correctly - and you always do - this is your fourth meeting spread out randomly in the past twelve years. He's getting older and so are you. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes are more pronounced and prominent, and his hair's just on the cusp of being more white than black.

The second thing you notice is that he's not wearing his hat today.

"Mr. Strider," he says with a warm smile, bright greens still trained on his glass. He always insists on calling you that, and you've given up on correcting him. "As punctual as always, I see. Not many things in life are as certain as your arrival."

The bartender gives you a look, and you nod: you'll have the usual, of course, whatever awful cheap-ass swill they've got on tap tonight, the one that always earns you a disdainful look from your company. "If you call me your foundation or your rock, Harley, that's grounds for a strife."

"Nothing so romantic, my dear boy!" He laughs heartily and claps you on your back. It kind of stings, but you don't show it, and you've learned to steel yourself so you don't topple forward into your drink every fucking time he does that. "But conflabbit, I've got quite the tale to tell you _this_ time. You're a smart fella, you read up on the mountains in the land of the East, praytell?"

"That's racist, and it depends on the mountain. There are kind of a few."

"I'm a busy man, Mr. Strider. There are times when you're out in the wilds without a clue as to which region of the country you may be exploring. But these mountains, my lad, they were quite possibly the most treacherous I've encountered yet! Indeed-"

He stops by once every few years in this one bar to tell you about his grand adventures and death-defying tales, and while you listen you always watch his hands and the way his eyes light up with enthusiasm and you feel sick every damn time.

xxx

" _Fuck!_ Yeah, right there- Come on, you can do better than that, gramps-" A few hours later, you're drunk and on your side and holding your leg up so Harley can give you a good and proper dicking. He's as thick as you remember, fills you up and stretches you wide and you fucking _love_ it. Earlier you nearly got on your knees as soon as you stepped into your apartment, but he wouldn't let you like the ridiculous gentleman he is. The weight of his body holds you down, keeps you in place as he moves into you and shakes the world. Shit, the man can make your toes _curl_ with pleasure.

"That's it, lad," he mutters and it sounds like hot sin that sinks into your chest. "Just a little more, yes, yes that's a good sport-"

His thrusts shift from slow and deep - so that you can feel every inch sliding within you - to something much faster, more hurried. He's close and so are you, trying your best to move down against him but the hand he's got on your thigh keeps you still. You take what you're given, demanding that he go harder, faster- yes, _there._ At the peak of desperation, he's got his hand on your dick and you lose it, eyes shut tight and body taut. Every muscle shudders and releases, lays soft while Harley works you just a little more.

"Con _sarn_ it-" he growls before he quickly pulls out and spills himself on your stomach, the stuff pooling in the dip of your abs. It's fucking gross but you deal, too tired to crawl to the shower or wipe it off. And you're begrudged to admit it, but it feels too nice when Harley settles next to you, drapes a thick arm over you. It's like having your own personal goddamn fur blanket.

Moments pass and your breathing steadies. You can tell he's on the edge of sleep, but you're far from it. You shift to wake him.

"It's almost time." You feel him tense, feel him nod. "Guess I ain't seein' you 'til the game starts."

"I reckon that's the case."

"Yeah, thought as much." You pull Cal onto the bed with you, tuck him in all polite-like. Silence and sleep creep in the spaces between you. You close your eyes and just listen to him breathe. "Don't die on me, Harley."

xxx

You hear it from Dave a decade later about a girl on an island who lost her grandfather when she was young. A stray bullet, he says. You think it's odd. From what you know, the man was a master with guns and the like, practically slept with them. But you don't say a word, just listen as Dave continues on about how she's living with a dog, now, and how ridiculous that is or isn't.

You figure it's time to finally stop paying the barkeep.


End file.
